The Bride Next Door. Winnie Griggs

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      Was he the sort who didn’t like to pray in public? She hadn’t thought of him as the reticent sort. But she nodded and bowed her head. “Heavenly Father, we thank You for this food and for all the other blessings of this day. Help us to remain mindful of where our bounty comes from and to whom our praises belong. And keep us ever aware of the needs of others. In Your name we pray. Amen.”

      She smiled up at him as he echoed her Amen. “Eat up.”

      The silence drew out for several long minutes as they concentrated on their food. Finally, she gave in to the urge to break the silence. “I read that newspaper of yours.”

      “Oh?”

      “Yes, and I want to thank you for the job you did on that interview. You took my uninteresting life and made it sound, well, plumb interesting.”

      He seemed more amused than flattered by her comment. “That’s the job of a good reporter—to find the hidden gem in any story.”

      “Hidden gem. I like that.” She pointed her spoon at him, then quickly lowered it. “I didn’t read just the interview, though—I read the entire thing. You did a fine job with all of it.”

      “Thank you. I suppose it is fine, for what it is.”

      “What it is?” His tone puzzled her.

      “Yes—a small town, nothing-ever-happens, two-days-a-week newspaper.”

      “So you’re not happy with it.”

      “As I said, it’s fine for what it is.” He gave her a pointed look. “Do you mind if we change the subject?”

      Why was this such a touchy subject for him? But she obediently reached for another subject and said the first thing that came to mind. “I heard you mention something about a letter. It wasn’t bad news, I hope.” Maybe that’s why he seemed so out of sorts.

      He studied her as if searching for some ulterior motive behind her question. She thought for a moment that he would change the subject again.

      But then he reached for his glass as he shook his head. “Not at all. It’s a letter from my sister, Abigail.”

      Why wasn’t he happier about it? “How nice. The two of you must be close.”

      He didn’t return her smile. “She wants to come here for a visit.”

      His grim tone puzzled her. “Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, wouldn’t you like to see her?”

      “Of course I would.” He took a drink from his glass, then set it back down. “But, as I’ve told her any number of times, it’s better if I go to Boston than if she comes here. Unfortunately, she doesn’t see it that way.”

      “But if it’s that important to her, perhaps you could allow her to come here just one time. You know, to satisfy her curiosity.”

      His exasperated look told her she’d overstepped her bounds. “For her to come here,” he said, “there are significant arrangements that would need to be made—things such as finding a traveling companion and making certain she doesn’t fall behind in any of her classes. Besides, Turnabout is no place for a girl like Abigail. And there aren’t an abundance of activities to entertain and enlighten her here.”

      He broke off a piece of bread with more vigor than was absolutely necessary. “No, it’s much better if I visit her.”

      A girl like Abigail? What did that mean? Was his sister one of those spoiled, pampered debutantes like the ones who’d graced her grandmother’s parlor? Girls who never got their hands dirty or even knew what a callus looked like? But that wasn’t a question she’d ask out loud. “Do you plan to do that? Go visit her, I mean.”

      “Of course. I traveled to Boston to see her over the Christmas holidays and will make another visit sometime this summer. She and I spend our time going to the theater, visiting museums, attending the opera and whatever else she cares to do.”

      Those were the kind of things they enjoyed doing together? “Don’t you two ever go on picnics or take buggy rides through the countryside or just take long walks together?”

      “Since my time with Abigail is limited, I always strive to make it count for something.” His demeanor had stiffened, and his accent was more pronounced. “My sister is being raised as a proper lady, not a hoyden. Those activities add to both her education and her social polish. Their entertainment value is merely an added bonus.”

      Daisy straightened. She supposed she’d been put in her place. And she’d also gotten the distinct impression that Miss Abigail Fulton might be every bit as stuffy as her brother.

      Ah, well, there wasn’t much danger that they would cross paths anytime soon—not if big brother had his way.

      * * *

      Everett was glad when Daisy finally let the silence settle between them. He didn’t care for all this prying into his personal life. Didn’t she understand there were lines one just did not cross? Someone should sit her down and explain the rules of polite society. Not that he thought it would do any good.

      Perhaps she would learn from their interaction.

      His thoughts drifted to that prayer she’d voiced earlier. It had surprised him, in both its simplicity and sincerity. He hadn’t heard anyone pray like that outside of church before. It seemed that her faith was a deeply personal one. But then again, he was beginning to see that she approached nearly everything in her life with everything she had.

      If she was going to make it on her own, and try to establish a business, she’d have to learn to be more objective and circumspect in her approach.

      Perhaps that was something else he could teach her.

      Chapter Six

      Daisy blew the hair off her forehead as she dried the last of the dishes. There was plenty of stew left over, and it would keep fine on the stove’s warming plate until Mr. Fulton was ready for his evening meal.

      She hung the dishrag over the basin, then looked around to check if anything else needed her attention before she headed home. Kip would be ready to go for a walk, and she was eager to get back to work fixing up her new home. But she wouldn’t leave until she’d made certain she met her obligations here.

      Mr. Fulton was fastidiously neat, and she was determined to leave the place as orderly as it had been when she arrived, if not more so. And she’d start by arranging his cupboards in a more logical manner. Logical from a cook’s perspective, at any rate.

      A freestanding cupboard on the far wall seemed to be the ideal place to store items that were seldom used. She crossed over to it and opened the doors, then smiled when she found it held only a few mismatched cups. She could certainly put it to better use than that. Satisfied, she closed the doors, then paused.

      Was that a crack in the wall behind the cupboard? It was mostly in shadow, but as she looked closer, she noticed the crack was perfectly straight.

      Then her eyes widened. It was a door, painted over to match the surrounding wall. What with that and the СКАЧАТЬ